


Seasons

by lizardwriter



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-22
Updated: 2011-01-22
Packaged: 2017-12-11 13:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizardwriter/pseuds/lizardwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"April showers lead to May flowers. June showers lead to July droughts. Late August showers lead to memories she’d rather not have." Post-series 4 time passes for Effy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seasons

She’s broken. Cracked beyond repair.

She feels split down the middle.

There’s the mask: the face she shows the world, the one that doesn’t move, that doesn’t show emotion, that doesn’t reveal the darkness within.

Then there’s her mind. There’re the demons that linger, taunting her, breaking her further. There’re the thoughts: blacker than a starless night sky and more desolate than the most barren desert. There’s the pain that never ceases and makes her just want to rip her chest open or bang her head against a wall until she feels nothing at all.

.

.

She’s always on the outside looking in these days.

Well, not just these days. Always.

She never saw the world the way that others did. No rose coloured glasses ever tinted her vision.

The world used to want her, though. Everyone in it, at least. Everyone wanted a piece of her.

Now none of them do.

.

.

They say the eyes are the window to the soul.

She stares at her own in the mirror and they just look dead.

What does that say about her?

.

.

She doesn’t think of him and she thinks of him all the time.

He creeps in.

At night he’s the shadow in the corner of the room, the tree tapping against the window, the tear against her cheek.

During the day when she’s out (alone, always alone) he’s the scent on the breeze, he’s the sun on her face, he’s the rain dripping on her head.

She doesn’t think of him, and he’s gone, but he’s all around her.

.

.

Life has changed. It goes on. It continues.

People leave, letters stop coming. Phone calls, too.

The world continues to turn on its axis.

She doesn’t. She’s stuck. She’s broken beyond repair.

.

.

Her mum works all the time just to not be home.

Her dad’s got a new job and a new boss, and this time he’s the one fucking her. He’s got no time for daughters.

Tony’s busy. He’s got an important job in London. He can’t visit. He can barely call.

.

.

The seasons change. Leaves fall. Snow falls. Trees bud and bloom.

April showers lead to May flowers. June showers lead to July droughts. Late August showers lead to memories she’d rather not have.

.

.

She moves out of her house. Out of Bristol. She puts on a smile that lasts ten seconds until the door closes behind her suitcase, and she pretends that her keen hearing doesn’t pick up her mother’s sigh of relief at the click of the latch behind her.

.

.

London’s busy, bustling. It’s easy to get lost. It’s easy to disappear.

London’s noisy, deafening at times. It’s easier to drown out the goings on in her own mind.

.

.

Tony’s engaged.

She hears it from her mum.

In a letter.

Two months after it’s happened.

It stings more than she’ll ever tell.

.

.

It’s a small wedding. Simple. Beautiful. No bridesmaids. No groomsmen.

She forces a smile for exactly five hours before it falters and her cheeks ache.

Lindsey, the new bride, her new sister-in-law is clever. Too clever for Tony, really.

Their eyes meet across the small room rented for the occasion, and a nod is all she needs as consent to slip away. She’ll thank her later.

.

.

She falls into a routine. It keeps her busy, occupied.

More importantly, it keeps her from thinking.

It doesn’t make life good, merely manageable.

.

.

Seasons change.

Leaves fall on her walk to work through Regents Park.

Snow turns to brown slush in the streets as cars roll past her flat.

Rain pings against her umbrella as she makes her way home with takeout (Indian on Mondays, Thai on Tuesdays, Chinese on Wednesdays, Turkish on Thursdays).

Sun streams through her kitchen window, gleaming off the knife in her hand as she cooks dinner (Fridays through Sundays).

.

.

She doesn’t really date. She fucks people occasionally.

Tom until his eyes began to soften when he looked at her.

Lisa until she began to delve into feelings.

Grant until he started talking too much.

Randoms in between.

.

.

She’s so used to disappearing, to seeing and never being seen, that she doesn’t expect it when it finally happens: when she finally runs into someone she knows.

Of course she sees Tony and Lindsey and baby Caroline from time to time, but only because they’re family and Lindsey’s better about calling than Tony ever was.

This is different.

.

.

She should have expected it, of course.

She’s heard that Naomi and Emily live in London when they’re not off globe-trotting for Naomi’s work.

She’s pretty sure JJ still makes frequent business trips to London.

She knows Thomas has started his own music label on the South Bank.

And Katie...

Katie’s the one she sees.

.

.

She’s older, is her first thought. Then again, they all must be.

She’s tamer, too, to an extent. No leopard print in sight. No bra just visible above a low-cut top. No six-inch ‘fuck me’ heels.

“Effy,” she says, quickly masking her surprise.

“Last I checked,” she replies.

.

.

They go for coffee.

She doesn’t know why she accepts. She’s felt no need for a legitimate social life in years.

Katie talks, but not as much as she used to. Not about such inane topics, either.

 _Maturity suits her_ , she thinks.

.

.

There’s a thing with Katie. She senses it rather than sees it.

There’s the common loss, to begin with, but there’s a common brokenness as well.

They don’t ask questions about pasts.

She’s sure that neither of them would want the answers.

.

.

They do dinner Saturday night.

She cooks.

Katie’s early.

She chops the carrots too vigorously and the knife slips.

When Katie touches her, wrapping the dish towel tightly around her finger, she flinches.

Nobody who’s not related to her touches her unless they’re fucking her.

Except Katie has now.

.

.

Seasons change and a new routine develops.

Leaves fall as Saturday dinners at her house with Katie become a weekly thing.

Icicles hang to the roof of her building as Chinese Wednesdays give way to dinners at Katie’s.

Rain slaps the window as she laughs for the first time in four years. (It stops her in her tracks.)

.

.

He’s not everywhere anymore. He’s faded away.

They all will, one day, she knows.

It’s the fate of humanity.

She barely thinks of him at all.

.

.

Katie slaps her. Hard.

She probably deserved it. She was being morbid.

“What makes life important is the people in it and the time you spend with them!”

“But they all die in the end.”

The second slap falls on a stinging cheek.

“You’re a stupid cunt!”

She’s not. She’s just still broken.

.

.

They don’t talk for two weeks.

She expects Katie to give in.

She doesn’t expect to miss her.

.

.

She trudges over in the rain with Chinese take out on a Wednesday night.

“Fucking drowned rat look doesn’t look that great on you, babes.”

Katie’s accepted her unspoken apology, but there’s an undercurrent still that she can feel. She’s not completely forgiven.

.

.

The peace is short lived.

Her fault again.

“What broke you?” It’s genuine curiosity that makes her ask.

She’s met with a “Fuck you!”

“It’s not Freddie.” It’s the first time she’s said his name in years. It doesn’t burn like it used to.

The slap stings her cheek, but she’d braced herself for it.

“What broke you, Katie?” she presses.

Tears spring to Katie’s eyes.

“Me.”

.

.

They sit on the floor, backs against her cabinets, bottle of expensive scotch passed between them.

For the first time in years there are no masks, no facades. There’s no need. Not when they both broke themselves. Not when they both know they’re both broken.

Necessary explanations are passed back and forth between sips. Unnecessary ones are left unsaid.

.

.

Monday dinners join Wednesday and Saturday dinners.

They eat out and analyse other restaurant patrons.

They guess their age, their relationship to those they are dining with, and their darkest secrets.

.

.

Their third fight ends in a kiss.

It’s hard and needy and it leaves her lips tingling unexpectedly.

Katie’s eyes are wide. In confusion, she thinks, until Katie pulls her close and kisses her again.

.

.

Effy’s lease is up and Katie wants a bigger place, a place she can properly decorate now that she can afford it.

It makes sense to find a place together.

.

.

Seasons change and their new flat becomes their own.

Leaves fall as rooms are painted (Katie’s pale yellow, Effy’s green at Katie’s insistence).

Snow falls (lightly and sporadically) as more furniture is purchased to fill the larger space.

Rain slaps against the newly installed, energy efficient windows.

.

.

She labels the first night of kisses a fluke. It’s never mentioned by either of them.

She goes with it.

She pretends that her body doesn’t ache for the feel of soft, cherry-flavoured lips.

She pretends that she’d never slipped her hand down her knickers and thought of burgundy hair, a button nose, brown eyes, and lightly tanned skin until she’d come so hard it took her ten minutes to fully catch her breath.

.

.

Katie kisses her after a long, hard day of work.

It’s harsh and desperate and Effy’s lower lip feels bruised from the way that Katie’s teeth dig in before she pulls away.

She kisses back, pinning Katie to the wall, slipping her leg between Katie’s, forcing her slate grey pencil skirt up.

By the time they break apart, Effy knows that she’s not the only one who’ll be sliding a hand down her knickers, thinking of long hair and deft fingers.

.

.

They don’t talk about it.

They live their daily routine.

They go out Mondays, Effy brings home Indian take away Tuesdays when she works late, Katie brings home Thai food Wednesdays after her weekly meetings, Effy cooks Thursdays, they eat out Fridays, Katie cooks Saturdays, they cook together Sundays.

They work, they eat, they talk about work, they sleep.

.

.

She might be wrong, but she doesn’t feel stuck anymore.

She looks in the mirror and her eyes don’t look dead. There’s a spark in the blue she’d thought she’d lost.

She looks in Katie’s eyes as she exits the bathroom, almost bumping into her. She doesn’t see a broken girl in them anymore.

.

.

It’s on the one year anniversary of them moving in together that Effy realises she hasn’t shagged anyone in roughly eighteen months. To the best of her knowledge Katie hasn’t either.

She has to ask.

“Why do we kiss?”

She knows her reasons. She thinks she does, at least. She’s done a lot of trying not to think about them, though.

Katie stiffens predictably. “Because it’s fun.”

The corners of her lips curl into a smile. “Bullshit.”

Katie sighs, putting the last of the special dinner she made into a container and closing the lid a bit too forcefully. She turns slowly, reluctantly. “Because if we fucked it might mean something.”

.

.

She doesn’t bother getting Katie to a bedroom.

She pins her up against the fridge, kisses plastered down her neck, teeth sunk into her shoulder, eliciting a sharp gasp.

Effy lifts her onto the counter, removing her knickers in the process, not taking the time to fully undress.

Their movements are frantic, harsh, bruising.

Katie’s fingernails drag down her back before curling into her arse, sure to leave little crescent moons indented there as Effy thrusts first one then two fingers inside her.

Katie’s head tilts back, knocking against the cabinets, mouth open in a silent moan as Effy’s thumb glides repeatedly across her clit.

Katie comes with a rush of hot breath on Effy’s ear, arm wrapped so tightly around her shoulders she thinks something might break.

.

.

They only make it to the couch in the living room before Katie pulls off Effy’s jeans.

Katie straddles her, placing hurried, sloppy kisses down her chest as her top is flung across the room.

Effy rakes her fingers up Katie’s thighs.

Katie responds by biting down on Effy’s breast.

Katie’s fingers rub harshly over Effy’s clit. They slip slide over her slit and back up, lubricated in her own juices.

Katie slides two fingers in, fingernails scraping slightly as Effy digs her own nails into Katie’s back, mouth sucking on Katie’s pulse point even as a moan escapes her lips.

Effy comes hard with her face buried in burgundy hair and the taste of cherry lip gloss on her lips.

.

.

They don’t talk about it. They don’t need to.

Katie moves into Effy’s room after two weeks.

Katie’s clothes migrate into Effy’s closet a month later.

Katie’s old bed is left stripped, bare, behind a rarely opened door.

.

.

They fuck regularly.

Roughly, sometimes, with all the need, the urgency, the passion of the first time.

Other times they take their time, working each other slowly, teasingly, licking here, caressing there, never in exactly the right place until they’re both writhing with desire, aching to come.

Effy tastes Katie for the first time in August with no unbidden memories and no regrets.

Katie first tastes Effy exactly twenty-two minutes later after coming twice.

.

.

Seasons change and feelings develop.

Leaves fall as Effy introduces Katie to Tony and Lindsey and Caroline (now age three).

Their pipes almost freeze from the low temperatures just as Tony (not Lindsey this time) calls to say they’ve just found out they’re pregnant again.

Rain pelts against their bedroom window as they cuddle up in bed talking about anything and everything and nothing at all.

Crickets chirp in the warm summer night as they lay side by side, hand in hand, watching the stars.

.

.

“Eff, I just...I think...I want you to know...I-“

She squeezes her hand tight. “I know. Me too.”

Katie readjusts, intertwining their fingers as she breathes out a soft sigh. “Good.” She squeezes back. 


End file.
